


To the ends of earth

by FrozenBrownie



Series: Ascent [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1759, 18th century his Majesty's dragon AU, Beta Read, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Seven Years' War, journey by ship, pining albus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenBrownie/pseuds/FrozenBrownie
Summary: With Rider Albus Dumbledore and his faithful dragon Gwythyr still recovering from the battle above Venice, Britain on the brink of being invaded by the French, Prussia struggling to survive this war and a hot summer behind them, Albus and the young magizoologist Newton Scamander have a long journey to home ahead of them. On the voyage from sun-scorched Gibraltar to much fought-over Dover, anything can happen, especially when bound to three ships of the line due to Gwythyr's injuries. Albus really just hopes he can keep Mister Scamander Junior from tripping over trouble. Well - more trouble than he himself is in, anyway, considering half his heart has been taken back to Prussia by Rider Gellert Grindelwald...
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Series: Ascent [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1436455
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. On stranger tides

**Author's Note:**

> Hello internet, I'm back with part 3 of my Ascent series! As you all know by now, I adore this series to pieces and as such, I am very proud to present To the ends of earth, beta'd by the wonderful [emeraldtree](https://emeraldtree.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr. Thank you lots and lots, you have been a tremendous help to reduce my run-on sentences and repetitions to something truly polished.  
> Part 4, Midwinter Nights, is already in her capable hands and I'm working on part 5, Black powder dawn. Each work is getting longer than the previous and, honestly, had someone told me a year ago how much this idea would take on a life of its own, well... I probably wouldn't have been surprised. To the ends of earth has 4 chapters, I think I'll each post them three days apart or something like that. Here's to keeping the fandom alive until we're finally being fed new material to drool over!  
> I'm [dreamingbrownie](https://dreamingbrownie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come and squeal over all things historical, various fandoms and especially the Witcher as of late with me if you like!

**Part 1: On stranger tides**  
  
Gwythyr was panting in pain by the time they reached the port city Gibraltar. It wasn’t quite the outermost tip of Portugal, but a bay at the very south of Spain, occupied by Britain for the time being. The bay of Gibraltar appeared less like a part of the Atlantic and more like the English Channel, just as blue, just as cold, lacking the characteristic smell of the sea. Every downstroke of Gwythyr’s wings splashed water on to Albus’ face. Protective shields be damned, he was occupied enough holding her upright. His spells did nothing to relieve her pain anymore. The veterinarians had been right; she was nowhere near fit enough for a journey to the north of Europe. Hot, dry rainless weather during the two weeks they were forced to stay in Venice was wearing down on the food supplies. Italy could only provide so many herds of sheep, cows and pigs for food. Strong marching them all from Rome was out of the question. There simply wasn’t enough time and they were surrounded by enemies. It drove Albus up the walls to the point that taking flight had been nothing short of sheer relief. Gwythyr had fought for her life, bravely so, along with all the other injured dragons. Their Riders recovered a day at a time and it had all been going so well, or at least from the outside. Lying down she had not lifted a single claw from the ground for two whole weeks.  
Albus saw the mistake in his impatience now.  
  
The horizon was a shimmering line of brilliant blue where the incoming ocean reflected the sky, not a single cloud in sight. The northern coast of Africa was still too far away to be spotted today. With the sun burning mercilessly down on them it was hard to concentrate and watch for sails. The _HMS Achilles_ should have anchored in Port Gibraltar by now. It was pulled from Le Havre as soon as word of the battle of Venice had reached King George. Worrying, not to see it waiting in the harbour by now, indeed. But still, Albus held his tongue since they weren’t alone. They hadn’t been since Gellert left for Prussia to join the marching army against the impressively numbered Russian and Austrian forces. At each side of Gwythyr flew a young Venetian Green dragon respectively, named Argiro and Aurora with the colours to match their names. They were usually noisy and as impatient as Albus felt, and unable to hover in place for more than ten minutes at a time. In front of them Gibraltar rose like a needle out of the Mediterranean Sea. Only the English flags tied to the tail ends of the three dragons prevented them from being shot on sight. They had to avoid the Spanish city of Algeciras across the bay at all costs. Gibraltar was a British safe haven on a small half-island for them to land on and get away immediately. It was enough of a risk already, besides, no way in hell was Gwythyr going to hold the position for any prolonged time.  
  
_‘Tired’_ , she sighed in his mind for the fourth time today, and her head sunk deeper. Albus scratched her neck scales absently, still watching the horizon, sweating, breathing in time with the slow up and down of her enormous wings. Every movement jostled her injured neck. The bones were still healing. Though the torn tissue sewed itself back together already it would take time. So much more time than they had.  
“I know. We need to land immediately, we’re not going any further than this!”  
  
The Roman Rider Baldassare Colleone caught Albus’ warning first. The British boy on Gwythyr’s right hand side only nodded so his mop of sun-bleached hair bounced on his head.  
“Go down slowly, gently, Gwythyr,” Albus murmured almost fully dipped forth onto his chest, affection laced his subdued voice. It hurt more than words could express so see her like this. He watched her struggle and howl in pain when the changed angle made the wind rush into her wings too harshly. She toppled to the cliff just above the town of Gibraltar without grace, maybe a mile or two away from the harbour. No need to scare harmless soldiers by a fully grown Heavy Weight and two Medium Weights. All three of them were capable of unleashing hell through a snort alone.  
  
Albus slid from her back with ease, long since healed himself, and promptly rushed off to Aurora’s landing point. The boy was struggling with the belts. He clearly was not trained and scarcely equipped.  
“Scamander!”  
“Yes, Sir?” Goddamn, the boy was too young for this.  
“I know that you most likely weren’t told these things, but that landing was sloppy. Too loud, too much flailing about. We are supposed to keep this whole sorry ordeal under wraps. I do understand the joy that comes with flying, trust me, but if the Spaniards get _any wind whatsoever_ of us, we are as good as captured or worse! Do you understand?” Newton Scamander looked about ready to argue, his eyes too bright and the leather straps tightly clasped in his speckled hands. He would be sunburned all over by the end of the day, no doubt.  
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”  
Albus sighed.  
“Don’t Sir me that much, would you? I’m a scant twelve years older than you, not twenty.” A small smile lit up his whole face accompanied by a short nod that showed his willingness to comply.  
“As you wish. It is nice, I admit, to have somebody who speaks English around here. I wasn’t exactly given much time to prepare for this transfer.”  
  
The sound of stomping feet behind Albus interrupted them. Aurora lifted her head curiously to the noise of dry brown grass breaking like straw.  
“Well, that’s a shame, Scamander! Italian is a wonderful language, you think not?”  
Rider Colleone, grinning like the midday sun and his arms spread wide, was an annoying prick more often than not and never knew when to shut up. Broad shoulders, full in size, double Albus’ age but appearing younger. Being a Rider did wonders to the aging body if you weren’t scratched and torn in some battle or another. He was the seventh son of a working class couple, the others at the healer’s bay had said, which showed in his good nature and strength. He was the Venetian’s security measure and technically in charge, but only until Aurora and Gwythyr were safely atop the ships. At the moment Albus only wished their heavily accented chaperone to listen in a bit less on other person’s conversations.  
  
“I hardly think that any skills in Italian that we achieved at the Academy are of much use in your beautiful city. It’s your dialect, I’m afraid.”  
“Nah, horse dung,” Colleone replied and clapped a hefty hand to Aurora’s soft rosé scales. He was mindful enough not to cut himself, but apparently not of other creature’s personal space. “Translation spells ‘n all. You guys do that, don’t you?”  
“Sometimes,” Albus replied curtly, faked a smile and went to work conjuring a bathtub filled with water. Out here there wasn’t any drinking water within miles, unless they marched straight into town.  
He held the Italian’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary, not quite a warning yet acknowledgement of the tension between them. They were clashing personalities, and had different ideas on how to treat a dragon. He dearly wished for Gellert’s company to keep him from lashing out at anyone who got within a five feet radius of Gwythyr. She had been so terribly close to losing her life, and hovered on the brink without falling to either side for days. The thought of being trapped on a ship for over two weeks didn’t exactly calm Albus’ nerves. At all.  
  
“I say we make camp, wait for your comrades to show up,” Colleone ordered with a sneer. He stomped away to his silver dragon Argiro, who had long since settled into the dry grass, tail tucked next to his body like a great cat. Next to Gwythyr both dragons looked three sizes too small. They were just as muscled as she was, though faster and not very talkative. Aurora was meant for the Ministry’s new training program. The Ministry had, against their own will, been told by the parliament that too many Heavy Weights were unsuited for formations going up against the French strategy. It was a damn façade, a dragon as a gift like a sword specifically forged for this war. Albus squared his jaw and stood his ground, waiting for Colleone to be out of earshot.  
  
Gwythyr nudged his legs from behind with her snout, obviously expecting him to hold on and lean back. It really was a marvellous view from up here. The cliffs fell so steeply into the Strait of Gibraltar that looking down made him dizzy. And he was a Rider! Somehow, standing at the edge of Europe had a different feel to it entirely than sitting strapped onto a strong back made of muscles and scales twice the size of his combined hands each.  
_‘Albus.’_  
“Not long now, my dear. They can’t be far or else word would have reached us.” Whom he was reassuring, him or her, he wasn’t sure.  
  
The sun took a long while to dip down into the arms of Spain, setting the sky on fire. The far heights were covered in gold in the west and azure over the sea they were leaving behind. Soon the fortress of Gibraltar turned into a silhouette of pitch black boulders scattered over flat plains. It was one of the most heavily armed and guarded forts in the entirety of Europe. One could easily be tricked, by the peaceful slumber of the evening, into tranquillity. When the terrible heat finally gave way to a slight breeze coming in from the ocean Albus fooled himself into imagining small triangles floating over the south-western horizon. This was the edge of the world, of his world, at least; there was a whole continent behind that horizon. Africa was full of people with skin as black as the night sky and palms as pink as Aurora’s scales. It was a well for the slave trade that Albus loathed with a passion. Though he was acutely aware of the anew riches it had brought, and continued to bring his home country every day.  
  
As night settled over Gibraltar, neither of them dared to start a camp fire. The bay wasn’t large enough for it not to be seen from the other side.  
“Sir?” Albus turned around. Newton Scamander approached him carefully from the left where he wasn’t nestled against Gwythyr’s warm flank.  
“Yes, Mister Scamander?”  
Damn shame to call that boy Mister instead of Rider, really. The sound of a breath puffed out into the dark.  
“It is not my speciality, these sorts of things, but I thought to see ships approaching from the west just before sundown. Too dark now to spot anything, obviously. Maybe it would be wise to sweep down into the harbour and settle there instead. No ship will ever see us here.”  
“And you would prefer not to camp out in enemy territory, is that what you’re truly saying?”  
  
The boy’s blush would have been very obvious, indeed, if there had been more daylight than the little glow left to see just past his own hands. Somewhere, Colleone was trying not to argue too loudly with his dragon and failing spectacularly.  
“Yes, S- Yes, I suppose so.” Albus picked himself off the hard grass, weary of Gwythyr’s deep breaths. She was asleep and had been the second they touched ground.  
“Fine, then. I thought it wiser not to scare the townspeople, although we can’t have our transport home wonder where we are, now, can we?” There was a hint of a smile, an outline of relieved gratefulness in the dark of the night, and the young Scamander retreated respectfully. Albus couldn’t fault him for leaving the part where he broke the news to Colleone to himself. The farewell was brief and friendly enough with both parties glad to part ways.  
  
The _HMS Achilles_ , as they soon found out, was a majestic ship of the line rowed with cannons on two decks and four masts. The rear was large enough for Gwythyr to curl up, but not wide enough to stretch out on from starboard to portside. It would be damn difficult not to get in the sailor’s way constantly. Accompanying them were two frigates, the _Brilliant_ and the _Juno_ with their respective captains. The captain of the flagship, the _HMS Achilles_ , was a man about Albus’ age called Admiral Samuel Barrington. Albus settled in for a long journey surrounded by heaps of rough men bursting to tell the tale to the unknowing Riders about their successful raid on Le Havre to prevent a French invasion on Great Britain over the channel, with each tale being a bit more colourful and exaggerated each time. And if he basked in said rough men walking around shirtless shamelessly, packed in muscles like mules, well, nobody knew him well enough to call him out on it, except Gwythyr. He worried more about the Scamander boy. He was just young and pretty enough to be of interest to some of the sailors, but too shy to say no to anybody and too oblivious to notice that he was being hit on _constantly_. It was maddening.  
“Gellert is going to kill me for this,” he groaned under his breath on the very first day afloat and made it his task to protect the young magizoologist nonetheless. He also spent a lot of time tending to Gwythyr’s healing wounds, finding it hard to let her alone for long.  
  
Restocked with goods, food and fresh water, the three ships set out into the open sea two days after landing in Gibraltar. For a ship this big, apparently two days was a quick jump in and out. There was no time off for the crew, only enough time to purchase new clothes, more thread and some needles to fix their scarce belongings as well as the sails. Aurora tried to fit in somewhere in between, changing between the _HMS Achilles_ to curl up next to Gwythyr. Sometimes she rumbled deep, soothing sounds like the purr of a cat when pressed into her sides. When she became just too much hassle for the sailors to deal with, she simply hopped over to the _Brilliant_ again. It unsettled the sailors, of course, to work around the dragons, which were living, breathing mountains of fire, teeth, spikes and claws. When exactly Albus had started to think lovingly about them like a loyal partner in crime and more relaxing to be around than humans, he had no idea.  
  
Sailing onto the open waters with the sun barely hovering above the horizon behind them felt like a breath of fresh air. Albus was standing at the nose of the ship with his arms crossed, and he hadn’t eaten yet. Never in his entire lifetime had he experienced a journey by ship, not to mention several weeks out on the ocean, because frankly, he was a wizard, thank you very much. Besides, Gwythyr was more comfortable, not to mention faster than a ship. The sailors currently on deck had started singing once out of earshot of Algeciras. It was a longing, hopeful song that neither cared much for melody nor for proper wording; the lyrics were crude at best. A strong breeze blew all sails so taught that every change of direction resulted in a sound like gunfire, even tying Albus’ long hair into an orderly ponytail didn’t keep it out of his face. In front of their little fleet, the Atlantic stretched so far into every direction that one could almost sense the Americas waiting on the other side. The ocean was a deep dark blue where the continent of Europe gave way to nothing but water, crowned by small patches of white foam. Last night sent clouds on their way, wherever they were travelling, torn apart and hurtling across the sky at a speed that made Albus worry. He was intimately familiar with the changing moods of the weather, though it mostly wasn’t a concern as Gwythyr always had the option to land and seek shelter. On a ship there was no escaping a storm.  
  
He tried his best not to stumble, to go with the rhythmical rise and fall of the ship and get used to the different movements. It felt nothing like flying, though just as freeing and the slightest tad dangerous. The air smelled of salt and the rushing sound of the rumbling, constantly moving ocean would put him to sleep in no time that night. They would have made the turn to the north by then.  
“Impressive, inn’it?” He almost jumped out of his skin, cursing under his breath. How was the sailor so quiet in approaching? A bald man with several tattoos on his upper arms and less teeth than holes in his mouth stared at him. He stood slightly behind Albus, as an indication that he didn’t plan for a long chat. Albus nodded curtly, his gaze flickered to Gwythyr. Still sleeping, but not for long.  
“One of the most beautiful things on earth I have seen so far. The sunrises and sunsets here are stunning. It sets everything into perspective, somehow.”  
“Yeah, that’s what yeh posh people always say. Sky was on fire for several mornings now. Means nothing good. Never does.” Albus refrained from pointing out that superstition was nonsense. Sailors didn’t receive the same education that Riders did, not to speak of his expertise of Transfiguration achieved in Hogwarts. The man most likely didn’t have a single spark of magic in his blood with his small eyes, wide forehead, wrinkled skin, scarred from decades of healed sunburn.  
“Forgive me, I do not believe in the sky reflecting events which took place somewhere in the world. For there to be a red sunrise every time blood has been shed in the night, we never would have the pleasure to witness a yellow hue to announce the day.”  
  
“Poets,” the sailor spat and grimaced, baring ugly stumps as teeth. “Don’t think this’ll be a pleasant ride on horseback, landlubber! Tore the French a new one, we did, aye. Weren’t amused, ‘f course.” Albus gave another incline of his head, a nod too slow to be recognized as such.  
“I heard.” Albus would have liked to add that Gwythyr had taken out twice as many French soldiers with one blow than their cannons presumably had in the two days of the raid on Le Havre. Staying silent, however, paid off when a shrill whistling sound ripped through the hustling and bustling of the morning on deck. Turning around, he recognized the captain on the wheel with a sour expression. Admiral Barrington wasn’t a man to be toyed with. The sailor left Albus’ side, muttering filthy things in a language that didn’t quite sound like English anymore.  
  
Gwythyr slightly lifted her head in confusion, apparently decided it was way too early to be bothered by human noises and went right back to sleep. It would have been adorable, and Albus truly couldn’t help but smile, if the better part of her long neck hadn’t still been wrapped in caskets and bandages. Newt Scamander was already up and about, dragging two goats that moaned pitifully out of the belly of the ship.  
  
He felt the captain’s eyes on him while he made his way over the deck and most likely a complete fool of himself in the process. Admiral Barrington never truly smiled, though he appeared amused seeing a dragon rider stumble across his ship. Albus took it in stride. He was well aware of how he must have looked the first time he climbed onto Gwythyr’s back all those years ago. Which was over a decade now.  
“May I take those from you?” he asked the young Scamander boy politely just before he reached the stairs to the stern. Albus took pity on his struggle against two very strong-headed goats, who weren’t willing to end up as breakfast for a dragon. The boy blinked up to him, almost confused, before he handed over the ropes with a quiet bow.  
“Yes, please, thank you, Sir. Did you rest well last night?”  
“Indeed I did. I am ever so glad to return home, aren’t you too?”  
  
Scamander lowered his gaze and smiled carefully. His face was an open book, and his youth painfully obvious. Aurora was nowhere to be seen.  
“My brother certainly will be glad to have me back where he can watch over me. He warned me not to do anything stupid on the continent.”  
“Well,” Albus replied and lowered his voice. “I agree, of course, but we aren’t on the continent anymore, Mister Scamander. Still, I would advise you not to converse too much with the sailors. They can put funny things into your head. Superstition, that kind of thing. It can make you quite nervous, until the dragons catch up on those nerves and that’s the point where we have a real problem on our hands.” Scamander lifted his eyes for a second longer than he normally did, longer than strictly necessary for a polite reply at least, and straightened his shoulders. It gave him a whole inch of added height.  
“Of course, Sir. I’ll be careful.”  
Albus let out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding. The goats bleated again in their attempt to break free of his iron grip.  
“Thank you. Now go on, have breakfast as long as we still have something halfway decent stored under deck.”  
  
He watched the boy disappear under deck again before he stunned the two goats with a muttered curse. Gwythyr wasn’t even awake properly and wouldn’t eat for another half hour, at least. To magically glue them to the deck in front of her would be the easiest thing. Albus straightened his posture though he had some difficulty to focus on the Captain when Gwythyr was right there, alive and breathing evenly, clearly still asleep. Even her mind felt calm, which was a rare thing these days.  
He didn’t think anyone, least of all the captain, to raise an eyebrow at his discretely drawn wand; magic wasn’t so odd a thing in the Rider Korps when you dealt with dragons on a daily basis. So he did the only wise thing: come over as non-threatening as possible.   
“Admiral Barrington.”  
Wasn’t working so well with two goats under his extended hands, barely a foot away from Gwythyr’s snout, apparently.  
“Rider Dumbledore. You sent your stable boy away for the morning?” Brilliant, they would stick to the planks come hell or high water.  
  
Carefully he touched the small scales over Gwythyr’s nostrils, felt the heat underneath, smiled at the vibration of fire and smoke. Albus shook his head no.  
“Mister Scamander is more of an apprentice under my protection than a stable boy,” he corrected the Captain and forced himself to make eye contact. The Admiral had dark brown eyes and hid a tamed haircut, of the same colour, under his hat. His deep blue uniform was spotless if repaired in several places. And eyebrows. His eyebrows spoke more than words.  
“Is that so? Well, I advise you to look out for him, Sir. Boys like him are always so very welcome in the navy, you see.” Albus scoffed in amusement.  
“Not a chance in the world. What use would you have for a veterinarian?” Magizoologist, he thought and sighed internally. Still, the term was broader and easier to understand for a Muggle.  
  
Admiral Barrington gave him a look that didn’t need any explanation - the tired, long-suffering expression of a leader who had lost too many good men in the recent years. Albus heard rumours about this Admiral since landing in Gibraltar, such as he has been afloat for fifteen continuous years now. He was a treasure for the Crown, a strong rock in dangerous waters for his sailors. Heavens, but they were all tired of fighting.  
“You would be surprised. Your _apprentice_ takes care of your beast, then?”  
“Dragon,” he bit before he could stop himself, “Her name is Gwythyr and she almost gave her life saving Venice, we both did. Mister Scamander is helping to take care of her wounds. Trust me, had I not the need for him we wouldn’t be in your hair right now.”  
  
The Admiral returned his gaze to the ocean again, which was calm and steady. They wouldn’t need to turn north for another two hours, at least. The sky hadn’t even bled all that red yet with the sun rising in their backs.  
“It is my honour to transport the hero of the hour back home. The Venetians must have been quite reluctant to let you go.” Albus hid the urge to snort by lowering his head and regretted it instantly, not seeing the horizon made him dizzy. It would take a while to get used to. At least the feeling of confusion upon the first step on dry ground that would overtake him in Britain he was very much familiar with.  
“Not really, no. My understanding of Italian isn’t what it used to be and the summer was kind on nobody in all of Europe, least of all an island almost cut off from the main land completely.” He crossed his arms, reluctant to speak his mind. “You heard of the battle, then, and of what we did, though no word from anybody has reached us in return. Lord Abraxas payed me a visit three days after, but we received no messengers.”  
  
Admiral Barrington clicked his tongue, turned around to watch something only he knew of and focussed on Albus again briefly. His gaze was piercing.  
“Ah, I see. Something particular Old John said to you over there?” So that was the name of the bald soldier, then. Albus shook his head.  
“No, just superstition, nothing more. Something about red mornings and blood having been spilled in the night, the usual.”  
“I hate to break it to you, good Sir, but in this case, John was right. He’s a muttering fish head is what he is and you shouldn’t listen too closely to him, although he is a decent fighter in a tight situation. I doubt that he got wind of the Prussian struggles.”  
He almost swallowed his own tongue in surprise.  
“Pardon?”  
There was a careful blankness on the Admiral’s face. It made Albus worry even more than he usually did.  
  
“The Prussian King was shot in the battle of Kunersdorf, some three days back as a little bird told me. Do you speak German?”  
“A little,” he admitted before slapping himself mentally for it. It never did one any good to give away language skills to superiors. It only made listening in on conversations infinitely harder.  
“You may forgive me for butchering the pronunciation then. I find it hard and quite odd; it hurts the throat, don’t you think? The king lives, and rumour has it a snuffbox stopped the bullet from piercing his heart. His guard urged him away from the battlefield immediately. I bet the Russians and the thrice damned Austrians had a jolly time watching him flee. Six Thousand Prussians dead, thirteen thousand more heavily injured. Fifteen Heavy Weights fell, and one really doesn’t have to elaborate on their Riders.”  
“Merlin and Morgana… The war is as good as lost then.”  
To call the open pit in his chest terror didn’t cut it in the slightest. Albus felt his hands shake and hid them behind his back to appear calm when he absolutely was not. All he could think about was Gellert and his old, weary companion Anarawd fighting a battle lost to all hope. The two of them holding a position as long as possible or even escorting King Frederick back to Sanssouci through the air. With an injury like that, the damage done by a stopped bullet to the ribs and the tissue, getting to a healer as fast as possible must have been the priority, thus transporting Gellert away from the battlefield speedily as well. Albus refused to grieve until someone told him without a shred of a doubt they were both dead.  
  
Admiral Barrington glanced at him from the side, checked the compass embedded in a small table next to the wheel and squared his shoulders.  
“Not all is lost just because the Prussians have been handed their arses back to themselves. King Frederick lives, no doubt raging in his castle, as we speak, where no worries ever had a place at his table. Lighten up, good Sir, we will cross that bridge when we come to it. And for us, the Prussians don’t make a difference, now, do they? Do they have colonies, do they have ships?”  
“No,” he murmured and straightened his back to not come off as quite so gloomy. It was bad enough that Gwythyr was waking up from his mental state of turmoil. “No, of course not. I thank you sincerely for telling me the news so rationally. The attack on Venice makes sense now, gives it meaning. An ambush, meant to cut off any supply of help for the Prussians marching on Kunersdorf.”  
“It appears so, yes. That no-one has heard of the tragedy south of the Alps is a misfortune. Though I wonder if the Venetians would have been of any help at all.”  
To that, Albus stayed firmly silent, because no, they would have not. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admiral Samuel Barrington (1729 – 16 August 1800 according to Wikipedia) was a real-life admiral in British service who, indeed, was afloat for over two decades by 1763 which is four years after the window into time I have cast here.
> 
> King Frederick, as Albus thinks of him here, actually was King Friedrich II. of Prussia the Great (* 24. Januar 1712; † 17. August 1786). English-speaking history has dubbed him Frederick for some reason that for me, as a German, seems silly, but I suppose it has something to do how one would pronounce Friedrich in English. As Albus is English, he knows him as Fredrick, but that's a different story with Gellert, of course. Friedrich II. the Great is a much fought-over, much discussed figure of history, especially in Germany. Even as a student of history I do not dare to form my own opinion on a man who has been wrapped in praise, propaganda and accusations alike for all his life and in death as well. So all opinions formed on him here are based on the things Albus, or other characters, have heard of that King of their time.  
> The amount of research that went into the Ascent series is immense, so if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask me.


	2. Only good business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would have been too much to ask for a smooth, uneventful journey. At least Gwythyr gets to stretch her wings again...

A fleet’s pace was designated by the slowest ship, so it was no surprise that the _HMS Achilles_ took until the sun was the highest in the summer sky to set course north. The turn was a slow process, not a tight slingshot around the deadly cliffs of Portugal. Albus tried to stay out of the sailors’ way as much as possible, even going so far to climb onto Gwythyr’s back and strapping himself in his usual spot between her shoulder blades to watch from above. The hustling and bustling on deck seemed harmless enough. The weather held just fine for the moment and it was a routine manoeuvre. It renewed his respect for the men serving at sea watching them work hand in hand with each grip, each knot tied and the switching of positions high up in the rig. They were as skilled as apes and just as fast, even so, it looked like utter chaos. And yet, when noon came, they were well on their way along the coast line of Portugal, in friendly waters. For now.   
  
_‘Curious,’_ Gwythyr commented with one eye cracked open when some of the men finally settled down to eat, the first time since leaving the harbour at sunrise. Albus was handed a bowl of oatmeal with water and pork. The latter was of better quality than the sailors had received, judging by their grimacing faces and quiet murmur of discontent. A harsh summer was reaching its peak, indeed. Albus hummed a response and sat down between her forelegs. The warmth that she radiated was a welcome change from the constant moisture that soaked his clothes with salt. He felt he could breathe easier here than in Venice, though Gellert would no doubt have complained all day long about how it made his hair dry as straw. A pang to the heart, a quiet sigh. Yes, Albus was worried.   
“It reminds me of the fort just before a group of us would be leaving for patrol or longer journeys. Do you still remember Hagrid’s terrible habit of always arriving late just to carry twice as many buckets, pigs or whatever?”  
Gwythyr exhaled a warm puff of air that ruffled the Admiral’s hair. In turn Admiral Barrington didn’t seem to take any notice of the forty ton dragon lying right behind him.   
  
_‘It has been long since we were home last. That does not make my memory flawed.’_   
Albus hid a smile behind his long hair. He thought of better times, and gave a small shake of his head.   
“No, of course not. Do you worry as much as I do?” No need to explain whom he was talking of. She surely felt the terrible weight dragging him down or an echo of the same. And indeed, Gwythyr let out a forlorn suffering sound like a horn blown. Just as the beat of wings far above them ruffled the sails and tore into the deep blue water, she rose her big head from her resting place. Aurora drew spirals underneath the clouds drifting by, head hung low in the first scout for a hunt. Soon enough, she plummeted from the heavens into the water to come up with her snout full of twitching eels and tuna.   
_‘Yes’_ , Gwythyr replied, nothing less, nothing more, and the muscles of her torso tensed as if she was fighting to get onto her legs. With Albus in between her great claws she didn’t move an inch, longing instead; a longing so heavy to jump off the ship and sore in the sky that he thought his heart might burst from it.   
  
  
He was so lost in thought that he almost didn’t catch the Captain staring at them.   
“It’s strange,” Admiral Barrington said and glanced upwards to Gwythyr, “One could almost think your great beast is grieving. I have never heard a dragon sigh.”  
“One could assume you’ve never spent much time around dragons, then,” Albus replied without batting an eyelash. He put down his now empty bowl of something that vaguely resembled porridge. While the strong wind stirred his emotions, whipped them higher like the waves, he too remembered he seldomly spent any time _not_ around dragons. Gellert sweeping back into his life like a storm had been a much-needed breath of fresh air. Chances were he was injured or killed or, worse, was in risk of losing his head to the dark moods of a beaten king in his castle.   
  
Albus heaved himself to his feet, steadied by the warm scales in his back.   
_‘It appears the captain thinks me an animal.’_  
“No,” he protested, turning around slightly. “No, Gwythyr, nobody could be so blind. You are wise and more patient than most humans are, loyal and incredibly brave. As far as I’m concerned, you understand more languages than I do.”  
Gwythyr huffed and finally laid her head onto her paws, turning towards the two men who were about as tall as her closed snout. The saltwater made her scales dull and she wouldn’t be fully dry again until they reached Dover.  
 _‘You are too kind.’_  
He was about to disagree because no, he was not kind enough to the Scamander boy. Neither had he been kind to the superstitious sailor nor to the Venetians during his dark post-battle moods after Gellert had been called away once more. To argue with Gwythyr over such details in front of the Captain, who appeared truly puzzled now, would have been careless and rude.   
  
“She speaks with you?”  
“Yes, is that so surprising? If you have heard of the battle, were you not told how our warning was delivered in the first place?” A sour expression took over his weathered face.   
“I did, believing it less every time I was told the tale.” Albus was _this_ close to giving the esteemed Captain a piece of his mind when Gwythyr let out a hot breath of air above the two of them that so obviously was nothing short of a scoff that he had to bite back his laughter. Another sailors song washed over him like the constant rushing of the waves against the ship’s belly. He watched them at their coordinated work, losing focus before he caught himself and straightened his shoulders. The lack of a threat made him soft and he let his guard down in his exhausting worry over Gwythyr. For once, there was absolutely nothing that he could do. No service that he was expected to perform other than to show decent manners at the Captain’s dinner table.   
  
Silently he drummed his fingers between two of Gwythyr’s enormous claws, dulled and freshly cut so that she wouldn’t tear open the planks. He wasn’t in the mood to explain to someone without any knowledge about dragons, whatsoever, why they seldom talked. Most of them only ever talked to their Rider, if at all. How momentously stupid it was to just assume that they were nothing but brute beasts to be trained and tamed… It might be worth writing a paper on those prejudices once the war was finally over. Albus filed the idea away to later talk about with Gellert while he leaned back and watched the Admiral’s eyes go big. Gwythyr didn’t share what she said or projected into his mind, though Albus was confident that he would be quick enough with his wand, should the poor sod faint on the spot.   
  
“Once you are done shocking the noble Admiral and turning his world upside down, would you like to eat something? I could ask Aurora to catch something nice and big for you,” he offered to her with a pat on the leg to get her attention. He didn’t even bother hiding his smirk. Admiral Barrington obviously interpreted her affirmative rumble as a growl because he paled even further, white as foam now, shocked within an inch of his life but surprisingly silent about it. Hopefully he would get over it so they had at least one ally on this ship full of strangers who weren’t used to dragons, or Riders, for that matter.   
  
Albus wandered to the back of the stern and let down all his occlumency walls, feeling amused and prouder than he probably should have. The seagulls’ caws, the ocean sloshing against the ship, the voices of several different languages was all drowned out as he held onto the rail. Even with his eyes closed he could make out Gwythyr behind him like a bonfire in the darkness filled with smaller lights. Those other lights were the several dozen of sailors on and under deck. There was life in the water too, so much of it that the sudden realization of just how deep the ocean was beneath nothing but a handful layers of wood made him overcome with fear. His breath hitched, and blood rushed into his ears. Behind him, Gwythyr’s tail twitched nervously; he could sense it all the way down to his bones and how heavy she felt, as still and useless as a pile of rocks. Her bonfire moved through the night behind his lids.   
‘ _Up’_ , she urged gently, ‘ _not down_.’  
  
And there Aurora was, a comet in the sky, as blazing as the sun. Albus breathed in the salty air so deeply that his lungs hurt. He took in steady gulps until his racing heart calmed down enough to extend his mind towards Aurora like a bird flying straight into the sun. She was much older than Gwythyr. Her great mind matched the colour of her scales, a morning star going round and round and round in large circles. Finally, his careful approach was answered; a constant humming filled his mind to the brim that made Albus reel back a good portion. Aurora, bless her soul, dove down from the heavens immediately and let out a call that hurt. Him, Gwythyr, he didn’t know.   
And then he made the mistake to turn around into the direction they were going.   
  
Shock reverberated through his entire body like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. His heart stopped and hurtled twice its former speed. Gwythyr was on her legs before he could beg her to lie low. In the far distance of this mental landscape, over two dozen clusters of lights intercepted each other. Some flickered out of existence while others tried to get away. Ships behind the horizon, a battle, sailors dying. So much to a quiet journey back home to England.   
Albus snapped back into himself and forced his eyes wide open, panting. Gwythyr’s growl still echoed somewhere deep inside himself. Damn it all to hell, why did these things keep happening to them?   
  
“Dumbledore? At attention, soldier! You will tell me at once what has you so ghastly pale, what have you done, wizard?” The mighty sound of beating wings descending on them made him turn away from the captain. He couldn’t deal with the piercing gaze of Admiral Barrington now, not when Gwythyr was still a dead weight atop a slow ship of the line.   
“Ships on the horizon, an ongoing battle, too many to count without visual confirmation. People are dying. We are heading straight at them and there is no chance in hell that we will escape their notice with three ships and two dragons in the air.”  
  
It took precisely three seconds until the Admiral reacted. Everything turned into chaos as his barked orders were immediately followed. Aurora swooped down to hover at the ship’s side with a scowl already stuck in her pale throat. She knew, Albus saw it in her pearl coloured eyes, and yet was so utterly calm he seriously questioned if she had ever been in a battle before. Water soaked his linen clothes while he addressed her.  
“Originally I wanted to ask you for a good catch of fish, though I fear we have more pressing matters on hand. You have seen what is happening beyond my horizon, have you not?”   
Aurora growled deep and low as she inclined her head in a graceful arch, Albus wasn’t even bothered that she wasn’t answering him verbally. “I will get Newton for you, stay here! No, I take that back, go warn the other ships, afterwards come back to collect your Rider.”  
  
She turned away without confirmation, though he knew that his orders would be followed anyways. The Admiral was measuring their exact position with precision. All his movements were fast, not hectic, even as the Second Officer in command came pounding up the stairs with the want for orders already on his lips. Albus ignored him, not willing to lose another minute.   
“Captain-“  
“Do what you have to, Rider Dumbledore.” Admiral Barrington didn’t even look up from his maps and compass. It was a dismissal if he had ever received one.   
  
~*~_~*~  
  
“Gently, Gwythyr. I will hex you back to the _Achilles_ if I have to! We are not engaging in enemy contact and staying firmly out of line.” Her growl vibrated in his chest where his heart beat in a frightened rhythm. Newton Scamander on Aurora was right beside them. As much as Albus relished in the satisfaction to fly again, not to speak of Gwythyr’s thrumming joy, his nerves were tight with concern. For a short amount of time her neck appeared just fine as she effortlessly slid into each twist and turn to warm up her muscles. But that wouldn’t last, not by a long shot. Over Gibraltar she had been on the brink of collapse and that particular flight was only four hours. Opposed to the 36 hours she flew before Anarawd forced her to land in Nurmengard. To say that she was still recovering would have been a massive understatement.   
  
‘ _I am fine and do not feel any pain. Stop worrying, would you?_ ”  
“Not a chance,” he simply refused and checked all the belts holding him in place one last time before drawing his wand. This time, he had to risk it. With both hands he casted far-vision, a spell to show cardinal points at all times along with protective shields around himself and the pierce wounds on Gwythyr’s neck so that no sea water, black powder or other such things could cause infections. He almost did a double-take when the Scamander boy calmly drew his wand and did the exact same thing.   
  
“And when did you plan on telling me that you’re a wizard too, Mister Scamander?” he shouted across the space between their dragons, only to receive an apologetic smile. Scamander simply went on with his casting, sparks flying from his wand where Albus produced whole streams of light. The chances that the boy indeed was the son of the late Scamander Senior, whom he had to thank for receiving Gwythyr as a hatchling, was steadily increasing by the hour.   
  
The glittering water surface rushed by as ruffled beds of dark blue. The deep sea was just one wrong twist away, the ground unknown, the life forms underneath the very surface unexplored. For the first time in his life Albus saw a reason for superstition. Stories of krakens as large as an Ukrainian Ironbelly, and even stronger, seemed a lot more possible when you were going at top speed right above the open ocean. Gwythyr beat her wide wings in a familiar rhythm that she could hold up for hours without tiring. It would have been easy to fall into the tunnel-focus atop her back and lean forth picking out their first targets, the worst threats. He would then order her to dodge and roll at break-neck speed. But those two ugly rows of puncture wounds across her spiked neck were always in Albus’ sight and not going to heal anytime soon. Not soon enough.   
  
With each rise and fall of air all around him the battleships fleets came into clearer view. The wind blew landward and thus Gwythyr had to battle it beat for beat.   
“Sir? I’m not a Rider, but if we split up we will be harder to hit.” Scamander’s voice was almost completely inaudible by now, but Albus understood. He was loathe letting the young man go alone, even if it was the rational thing to do.   
“No engagement in any aggression, Scamander! Aurora is a gift to the Ministry and I won’t be the one to explain why a cobweb of scarred bullet holes cover her. Go scout and return as soon as you have the fronts figured out!”  
“Yes, Sir.”  
“Don’t get yourself killed, please.”  
  
The boy lowered his head with a hint of a smile and pressed his heels deep into Aurora’s sides. She immediately dove down and northward, away from Gwythyr, who swept southwest without needing orders. Albus firmly spelled the British flag onto Gwythyr’s tail with practiced ease. The air filled with the sounds of the fabric whipping at the spikes and scales. The harsh wind mixed with impending gunfire, the splash of cannonballs sinking, wood splintering, and the screams of dying men. This was not unlike any battlefield Albus had seen many times, and yet the sight of blood that bloomed in the sea like a siren call for sharks, of men drowning gone before they closed their eyes for the last time struck a cord deep inside his frightened heart.   
“Good heavens,” he whispered and choked on the prayer all the same. Gwythyr rumbled low in her chest, meaning to soothe, as they came nearer to the fighting ships. The British clearly outnumbered the French, although it was impossible to count in the chaos. Down there reigned hell on earth, a mix of fire and water that should not be possible and yet, man after man fell over the rails like by-catch on a fisher’s boat. Seagulls circled screeching in their ugly, strangely calling way and some of the waves looked too thin, too fast to not be shark’s fins.   
  
_‘I count six French._ ’  
“I count too many dead men and a damaged British flag ship. To put it lightly, we are not escaping this. Sticking close to the shore is too dangerous, and to go around the battle is pointless and a waste of time,” Albus summarized curtly even while the sinking realization set in. There really was no way out of this.   
‘ _They are trying to split the French up and drive them ashore, no? Is there not a port near? I have seen one on ascending.’_ She was right. Inside all the constant turning of directions, of masts locking and breaking, sails ripping, gunfire tearing the day apart, four large three-masters tried to break free of the British blockade. If Gwythyr had counted correctly, with her vision much sharper than Albus’, the French were outnumbered fourteen to six. Given that no Spaniards were engaged down there as well…  
“Lagos, yes, I heard the Admiral mutter it over his map and compass earlier. It’s too far away to consider stopping there, but it makes sense. Lagos is Portuguese.”  
  
Gwythyr stopped beating her wings and glided atop the wind instead. Aurora did the same a few hundred yards away. The first cannonballs soared up into the air and fell back into the sea without having done any harm, firmly out of reach. A huff made hot smoke wash over Albus like seawater, heat pooled underneath the layers of scales and muscle between his legs.   
‘ _They do not need our help_ _and_ g _rilling anything on high waters would be unwise_.’  
“And yet, we could save lives,” he finished her thought with great reluctance, torn. A gaze back to the _HMS Achilles_ ’ fleet confirmed that they would reach the battle in at least thirty minutes. But then, fourteen to six was a very safe bet on his motherland. “Turn back, my dear, and I want to hear none about it. We can help guarantying a victory on board. Nobody will try to jump a ship with a dragon on deck.”   
  
Aurora was falling back as he spoke, standing almost vertically in the air, beating, beating, beating, until the wind carried her all the way to where she had come from. The young Scamander was signing flags slowly, repeatedly, the same numbers that Albus had calculated.   
‘ _May I at least scare them? It might just hasten them ashore.’_  
“Gwythyr, dear…” A sigh turned into a helpless laugh and he shook his head in disbelief. Oh, how he had changed in the past ten years… “Yes, do what you can’t refrain of. Just spare me the worry of diving too deep, especially with an eye on the cannons, please.” Gwythyr practically swelled with joy, so Albus signed a confirmation of the fall back to young Scamander. Better to get the young one out of harm’s way, Albus thought, right before his expression turned to steel.   
  
It was all he could do was hold on as Gwythyr performed an elegant arch to the left to get behind the whole mess of ships, sails, injured men on top of swimming planks. The sun now in her back, she dove from the sky like an angel seeking revenge. The wind underneath her wings was screaming, now Albus could hear the ocean again, how it rushed and tore and rose and fell in angry confusion, crowned white, steeped red. The rush of a battle surged through his veins like fire, finally his instincts kicked in so he ducked deep onto Gwythyr’s neck. The ends of his hair hitting his face hurt. There it was, the beginning vibration so deep in her majestic body that he sometimes thought it came straight from the heart, the scorching heat, the low rumble that built and built into an all-encompassing roar. Just when Albus thought that she exhausted all strength left in her healing body, there came fire. She barrelled it straight above the masts, so it wouldn’t catch anywhere, but certainly enough for anyone underneath to feel the heat. Battered, broken ships picked up speed fast after such a scare. Albus could now make out the French flags on their sterns, above their mass of sails, torn, smoking, slowly disintegrating in the salted air of the Atlantic Ocean.   
A good two thirds of the battleships that had already been winning a slow victory cheered, screamed, yelled obscenities into the air and almost matched Gwythyr in the strength of it.   
  
He only stopped laughing when they were almost upon the _HMS Achilles_ again, a euphoria so powerful that he felt like he might burst with it. Patting his beloved Queen of the North on the base of his favourite spike to hold onto, the warmth of her scales felt like a furnace to his frozen hands.   
“Gellert will laugh for hours at us, you ridiculous, beautiful show-off, you know that?”  
‘ _Yes_ ,’ Gwythyr replied entirely satisfied and landed on deck with ease, her neck bowed.

  
~*~_~*~  
  
They captured the _Téméraire_ and _Modeste_ in the harbour of Lagos during the night, while the French flagship _Océan_ and the _Redoutable_ were driven ashore and destroyed. The remaining two French ships of the line escaped onto open waters. It was pointless to chase them as their water and food supplies wouldn’t hold out long enough to support the crews for the dangerous journey across the Atlantic. Sometime, in the upcoming days, they would inevitably sail back to France. The Admiral of the English fleet, Edward Boscawen, went ashore with Admiral Barrington to celebrate the victory with port wine (and to stock up on food, no doubt. Maybe the Portuguese had had more luck with their harvest than the British in Gibraltar.)   
  
Thus, Albus found himself leaning against one of Gwythyr’s large spikes with his journal and a quill in hand. The camp fire was burning low in the dried grass and two tunas, which he had cut open in halves, hovered next to it. The Scamander boy had looked close to puking during the entire process. Apparently, gutting a fish was another thing entirely compared to healing dragon wounds. Albus chose not to argue and did all the work. The dragons were full of cow and goat, as the smell from their feeding place gave away from miles ahead. Albus knew he should go to sleep and put an alarm on his wand to wake him once the fish was done. He could eat in the morning instead of… whatever godawful hour it was. At this point, however, sleep seemed impossible. The adrenaline from the chase was still cursing through his veins and every decision he made kept turning in his head. The puncture wounds on Gwythyr’s neck haunted him. Where her scales were broken and the flesh underneath swollen the Scamander boy had applied some tincture for the umpteenth time now, it reeked of alcohol and peppermint. To stare into the flames of the campfire did nothing to calm his nerves. Oh, but how he wished for Gellert to be here…   
  
Concentration to his journal came only after he relented and turned today’s entry into a letter instead. No-one would ever see these words. His journal was protected from prying eyes with such nasty curses that any soul foolish enough to touch it would remember their mistake for months to come. It still felt like too big of a risk to write the inner workings of his heart, to pour his thoughts onto paper only to lock them away and never look at them again. This was how he coped, and what he learned from moving on. Gwythyr had been enough, and their solace on and off the battlefield what kept him going. Her affection was more than he could have asked for. Until Gellert Grindelwald, now Rider and some high position impossible to pronounce for non-native speakers under His Majesty King Friedrich II. the Great of Prussia, had waltzed back into his life, saved both of them from certain death and took off north again mere days later. Had Albus not been so terrified of receiving news of his well-being after Kunersdorf, a sour mood indeed would have been more reasonable than to bloody pine after his teenage love.   
It was an open secret that the British Crown used the Prussians for their own benefit on the continent while focussing on the larger fight for dominance overseas against the French. He could not show his concern openly if he wanted to keep his reputation intact. Of what worth were all his accomplishments if he let himself be tricked into old sentiment? Not even the younger Scamander boy, who was sitting at the fire with his knees drawn tight towards his body and a forlorn expression in his sea-green eyes, could know.   
  
Albus closed his journal with a huff, the half-written letter to Gellert to stay forever such. The boy eyed him gently as he lowered himself to the ground through a whispered spell, not bothering to draw his wand for profanities.   
“Wha- You can do magic wandlessly?”   
“The things you learn to become a decent Rider and stay a wizard all the same,” Albus shrugged as he put the journal back into his bag and stood, stretching till his bones popped. He thought better than to bring up that he had been too lazy for a wand most of the time at the scant age of 18, years before meeting Gwythyr.   
Mister Scamander was still staring at him.   
“To cast wandlessly requires a staggering amount of magical potential, not to mention the control and finesse unless one wants to purposely overcharge the spell. Don’t play yourself down, Sir, that is a remarkable skill you possess.” And what to say to such innocent flattery?  
“Yes, well. Thank you. I would still ask you to keep this silent. The scepticism towards wizards and witches is a problem big enough without me boasting my power around muggles. The last thing we need is another witch hunt out of fear while our world is at war.”   
  
Aurora stirred in her sleep behind the two of them, exhaling a hot trail of smoke that curled around the tendrils of the campfire and disappeared into the black of the night. Gwythyr was almost entirely invisible, a night sky all on her own; a living, breathing shadow against the open ocean. The rushing rhythm of waves washed onto the beach gently. One could smell and taste the salt in the air as it was soaking into every piece of fabric, into their hair and the thin gaps between the dragons’ scales. Albus slipped his shoes off long ago to let them dry somewhere on the grass far away from crushing dragon bodies that twitched in their sleep. The sand stuck to his toes as he padded over to where Scamander Junior was sitting and prodded the tunas with a knife. It tasted richly of smoke and salt and something so entirely unique that no salesman in London could ever hope to come close to it.   
  
“Give it another ten minutes and we can put it down afterwards. You didn’t seem overly fond of fish earlier. I can offer you some dried soup to heat up in a pot or hard tack with raisins at least.” The Scamander boy looked up at him with a curious sort of wonder until he seemingly remembered his shyness and averted his eyes again.   
“Cooked fish is fine with me, just the- the process of cutting open an animal and – you know – all the organs and the blood – doesn’t sit right with me. My older brother does all the cooking on a journey and we have a maid at home.” A sinking feeling settled into Albus’ stomach as he cleaned the knife and settled down onto the beach next to him.   
“Ah, I see. Taking out fish really isn’t the most pleasant thing about cooking, I admit that much. So you live alone with him, where, in London?”  
“Yes. We do.” And that was all it took to confirm the suspicion, really. Orphans. Albus sighed silently and clasped the boy’s shoulder, squeezing tight for a moment before letting go to checked on the fire.   
  
A silence settled over them warm and thick like the night’s summer air. Scamander hadn’t let go of his knees even though his gaze flicked to Gwythyr and Aurora.   
“So, you know my brother?”  
“Fleetingly,” Albus replied carefully, observing the boy – Newton. His name was Newton. “He taught the French a lesson some years back, I heard.”  
“The war hero Theseus Scamander, yes. One of the reasons why I avoid giving my name to anyone as long as possible.” To that, he snorted audibly. If that didn’t sound familiar…   
“My younger brother Aberforth used to say that a lot. Living in my shadow was hard on him, and, I fear, especially after our mother died.” Newton Scamander lowered his head and stared into the flames. Some of the tension fell out of his shoulders with a breath of air.   
  
“You too, then? What does he do now?”  
“He owns a pub at Hogsmeade, up in Scotland.” Scamander Junior perked up like a dog and a light suddenly entered his eyes that had nothing to do with the campfire.   
“I went to Hogwarts, yes, I know Hogsmeade. The Hog’s Head? Gruff man with a brown beard that might have been orderly combed at some point?”  
“Precisely!” Albus bellowed and threw his head back laughing, never having heard such an accurate description of his dear little brother. “We never really got along, even as boys.”  
There was a beat of silence as Newton Scamander retreated back into himself, though his smile stayed.   
“Yes, well. We neither. Theseus is the picture perfect Gryffindor and I was… a mediocre Hufflepuff who got either pushed around or ignored for six years. I dropped out to become who I wanted to be rather than what everyone else expected me to become.”   
  
And there it was again. That flicker in his eyes towards the dragons like a mother watching over her children without hovering or annoying them physically. Albus felt something deep inside his very soul pull. Something that nobody had ever addressed or voiced out loud stretched and uncoiled in the light of a kindred spirit. Gellert, who was full of patriotism and righteous anger, fought for different reasons than Albus did.   
“I understand. Better than you might think. Though I have to admit that I myself attended the House of Gryffindor as well, and quite proudly so. Funny how little those things matter once you venture out into the world, is it not?”  
“Yes,” Newton Scamander breathed and let his knees drop to the sand so that his feet lay near the fire. “Quite so.”   
  
He fell silent and even while they ate and cleaned up, Albus found himself with renewed respect for him. The admiralty could treat the young Scamander as lower, unexperienced, a liability atop a present to the Crown presented with bow and thanks, but Albus would not be fooled into underestimating the Scamanders ever again. Both of them. Theseus he remembered distantly as one of the many offending ministry officials at the Fort. The regular inspections were predated by days of cleaning the walls, stables, exorcising field, and the bloody dining hall. Not one of the mildly annoyed Riders had known that one of the inspectors had a younger brother at home to feed and take care of. Less known was that said younger brother became a magizoologist, whose knowledge outmatched everything they were taught at the Academy. It opened his eyes just how closed-minded his small community of Riders really was, which was knit tightly by war and prejudice from the outside. He wondered, briefly, if Prussia was different. If that was the reason Gellert’s proudly puffed chest and the risks he took for his king.   
  
Albus restlessly fell asleep in the early hours of the morning since the two Admirals wouldn’t call them back aboard until noon. Port wine was a heavy, sweetly spiced, cruel substance that got to the head quickly. Alcohol on board was strictly prohibited. Nobody could keep an upright sailor from indulging himself on dry land as long as he was fit for duty the next morning.   
Mister Scamander took good care of Gwythyr’s wounds as soon as he was up on his feet again. He talked to her in a quiet, reassuring voice that made Albus wonder if she actually answered him. The yellow paste he smeared onto her wounds gave a stark contrast to her dark scales. The flesh was still tender and slightly pink. Gwythyr watched him every step of the way, albeit more curiously than wary, and he praised her for keeping so still. Aurora curled in right next to them. She pretended not to be jealous, but her loud sniffing and huffing rather gave it away, if the smoke that curled out of her nostrils didn’t already.   
  
For all his shyness with people Scamander junior was a marvel to watch around dragons. He was completely at ease and not afraid to be trampled on or accidently grilled. Either he had been around them longer than he let on or had seen some serious things in his young life already. Albus watched in quiet amusement until Aurora turned her triangular head away and closed her lids with an audible click that finally got Scamander’s attention.   
“Oh, are we sulking now? We talked about this, you drama queen. You aren’t the one who almost got her neck snapped by a Horntail.” Both his hands were on his sides now, Aurora only huffed again, if uncurling a bit, and sniffed him up and down as if she examined him for injury.   
  
If Gwythyr had had eyebrows, she would have risen them all the way to her horns. Her stance was somewhat cautious, watching rather than intervening.   
‘ _Am I usually this bad, Albus?’_  
He took the steps that separated them light-hearted and cupped her jaw with open affection. For once her wounds were not the centre of his attention.   
“Assuming that you speak of your blatant possessiveness of me, which I find very endearing, then yes my dear, you are.” Keeping his voice down, he swallowed some doubts about voicing a certain idea that he had been turning over in his head for hours now. Aurora seemed to have gotten over the sniffing and cradled the boy in her forelegs instead, essentially caging him. He was chuckling, a pleased smile on his face that must have taken some effort to put there.   
  
Albus leaned even further towards the heat of Gwythyr’s nostrils, where the scales were as small and delicate as his fingers.   
“To tear them apart in London will break both their hearts and I highly doubt that Aurora will ever choose another Rider. Thus, making a spectacular mess out of the supposedly gracious gift of the Venetians. What if someone were to persuade the Ministry that we are in urgent need of a field surgeon able to get in and out of dire situations quickly?”  
‘ _Someone_ ,’ she echoed in gentle mock and nudged him as softly as she was physically capable of. ‘ _Is he not a wizard like you? What do you call the appearance out of nowhere with that awful noise, apparating?’_  
“Small, breakable human without backup in the midst of a battlefield dominated by dragons? Bit not good, that.”  
Gwythyr let out a deep rumble much akin to human laughter, her whole torso shook from it as the hot air ruffled Albus’ hair. He still had to bind it back before they descended into the harbour again.   
  
“Mister Scamander!” he called in higher spirits than he had been for weeks, “As the chaos is getting worse, it seems, let us not waste another hour. We wouldn’t want to make the Admiral send someone to fetch us.” Scamander nodded a bit too hectically where he stood, encompassed by Aurora’s jealousy, and promptly started chiding her to let him go. He would smell of dragon smoke for the next day at least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Lagos during the Seven Years War indeed happened on 18th and 19th August 1759, not to be confused with the battle of Lagos during the Nine Years War in 1693. That the Téméraire was involved in this battle, having been captured from the French by the British, is a little treat from destiny here, because the book series which I took the idea of dragons as a normal military aspect from, is His Majesty's Dragon or for short Temeraire by Naomi Novik. Temeraire is the main character's faithful dragon, named after the HMS Téméraire, albeit during the Napoleonic Wars. Go check them out, all nine books are absolutely worth it and some of the best fictional literature I've ever come across. 
> 
> The salmon cut in half, roasted over the fire, I have from a video of Townsend. Go check their channel out on YouTube; 18th century lifestyle, cookery and sources, primarily about the North American Colonies. 
> 
> Another note on the battle of Kunersdorf mentioned in the previous chapter and again in this one: The snuff box that saved King Friedrich II.'s life by stopping a bullet that would have otherwise pierced his heart can be admired in Castle Hohenzollern in Southern Germany, along with the bullet itself and the "jacket" (technically called a habit but there you go) in which a hole proves the shot. If all of this truly took place as told is another question entirely, it rather smells like a myth made to boost morale in Prussia. Divine interference, and all that soot. But then there's the snuff box, the bullet and the jacket, so who knows...


	3. I don't think now is the best time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, oh London: Aurora is supposed to be given away and thus young Mr. Scamander's heart broken. Albus is having none of it. Also: Somebody should have made Gellert a politician.

**Part 3: I don’t think now is the best time**  
  
The small fleet pulled into Dover two weeks and four days later on a humid, hot day in early September with the _Téméraire_ and the _Modeste_ in tow. Without them the journey would have gone faster and without as many complications, but the satisfaction on Admiral Barrington’s face as he waved his hat at Admiral Boscawen over on the _Téméraire_ in congratulations made the hardships worth it all. Albus did not want to see a single hard tack for the rest of his life, nor would he ever drink grog voluntarily again. Some fresh vegetables, brought in from the harvest would do nicely for a change. And without fish, for Merlin’s sake. He craved some decent pork or steak.   
  
Gwythyr was restless, not for fresh unrationed food but for freedom. She was hard to talk into patience at least until the _HMS_ _Achilles_ was tied to the pier. Aurora, over on the _Brilliant,_ didn’t fare much better. Dragons simply were not made to wait out weeks on an unsteady ship and not spread their wings for days. If only they had been allowed to fly, slow circles in the sky above, but the fleet hadn’t cut it in the least. Of course the sailors had been thankful for the extra fish the dragons dragged out of the sea in their restlessness. They caught more than they could eat; apparently dragons were just as prone to getting seasick as men unexperienced on open water. It was a miracle none of the sailors voiced a single word of hostility against them, probably the doing of Admiral Barrington’s unrelenting strictness. Albus himself longed for London after the better part of two months now, thanks to the war that he was so very tired of.   
  
Dover welcomed them with cliffs as white as snow and the harbour bursting with ships and people. The Channel was of a bottle green today, in turmoil where the wind struck the waves in blows. Orders to strike the sails echoed across the Channel. Every man was on his feet as they began to sing a joyful tune of God’s mercy and the relief to see a loved one after months at sea. Albus had yet to tire of their mismatched voices harmonized with the rushing waves and now familiar words. Smiling, he stood next to Gwythyr against the rail, as usual, to be out of anybody’s way. Oh, what a relief to see the cliffs of his homeland again. What joy in the trade of goods in the harbour! As heavily armed as Dover was these days it was a sight for sore eyes, and one that he had almost given up upon when storm after storm slowed them down. Another one hung heavy in the air with the promise of rain and thunder to drive away the last of remnants of the summer.   
  
Albus turned away from the sight of the busy port to address the Captain. He stood behind the steering wheel steadfast and freshly shaven.   
“Admiral Barrington? I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing us home. From here, Gwythyr will be able to make the journey to London.” An affirmative nod gave all the answer, though politeness called for words in return.   
“And with much more haste than my _Achilles_ can offer. It was my pleasure, good Sir. You and your companion have taught me some things that I did not deem possible before. She is much better now; a blind man could see that.”  
“That she is,” Albus confirmed and utterly failed to keep the pride out of his voice. As if to undermine his words, Gwythyr tore her focus away from the seagulls circling the fisher’s boats in the harbour and performed something so ridiculously close to a curtsy in front of the Captain that Albus had to stifle his laughter in his faded red sleeve. Admiral Barrington gave an actual snort before his poker face slid back in place.   
“Two gun salutes for our prizes that we bring His Majesty!”  
And with that, they were home again.   
  
Gwythyr propelled herself into the sky as soon as the ropes were thrown onto the pier. Her mighty push shook the entire ship and made water splash over the rails. Aurora followed her without any command given as Albus hung on so tightly to Gwythyr’s spikes that his knuckles lost all colour. Each beat towards the dark sky carried a feeling of victory like a battle won high in his throat until laughter bubbled out of him. He felt light-headed and all too eager to get someone to tell him the whole story of Kunersdorf. First, he needed to find some messenger to send that letter to Gellert he had been writing over the course of the past two weeks. Also his uniform needed to be brushed up and repaired – urgently so – to show up at the Ministry as soon as possible. He still had to collect an order of honour along with the gold attached to it.   
  
“Don’t strain yourself too much, my dear. It doesn’t matter if we will arrive in London within the hour or the next,” he gently chided. Gwythyr desperately lunged for the clouds and set a pace Aurora could never maintain for over an hour. It was a blessing to shake off the damp humidity of the day in favour of the cool heights. Her wings stirred the heavy air and made birds flee with angry cries that disappeared quickly like smoke. Albus turned to look back at Aurora, whom the Scamander boy clung to like a life-line, white as a sheet.   
“Gwythyr!” he called again with a fair warning laced into the understanding of her desperation now. Finally, she relented and fell back with upright wings that caught the wind much like sails blown wide by the effort to stay in control. Aurora drew up next to her panting, beating hectically to gain speed.   
  
He comfortably settled in, checked the belts once more out of habit and watched the landscape swish by far beneath them. Little farm houses surrounded by sheep, pigs, cows, and chickens painted a familiar picture that made him smile despite himself.   
“Glad to be back home, Mister Scamander?”  
“Ah, I will be gone before long again. London never really managed to keep me for more than a few weeks. The stench in the streets and the pickpockets are hard to get used to.” The young man swallowed whatever question was on his tongue and Albus let him, steadfast in his plan by now to dissuade whichever pighead sought to take Aurora away like a gift horse. Had anyone dared to utter such plans about his Gwythyr Albus was quite sure his refusal would have been far more scathing than Scamander’s quiet resignation.   
  
“So you weren’t born in good ol’ London, were you?” He shook his head no and showed a little smile that made him appear years younger than he was. His answer sounded rough around the edges of each word, tilted and coated in a slang far removed from the round vowels home to London.   
“No, Sir. My brother and me are Irish boys, and I wouldn’t expect anyone to know our village. It’s empty by now, for sure. All the desperate people emigrated to the Americas… those who stayed starving. I- I apologize, it is of no importance now. My life is a good one and I indeed am glad to be back, at least for a while.”  
  
Gwythyr let out a high calling sound that went straight to the heart, which was answered by Aurora in a deeper timbre, almost a sigh. The dragons also heard the attempt at positivity in the face of an inevitable loss as much as Albus had. Mister Scamander, freckled, pale and ever so quietly cheerful instead of displaying worry, feigned a smile that looked a little dim on his young face.   
“Nothing to apologize for. Thank you for your honesty and your company on this long journey was a very pleasant one.”  
“I learned much from you,” Scamander answered without any shame and that was the end of it. They each carried their memories of difficult times in private and the future was still uncertain. Albus vowed then and there to not let Aurora and her chosen Rider be torn apart, no matter the cost. Gwythyr had saved his life, so very long ago. Merlin knew what would have become of him if he had been left to wallow in grief and loss alone. He liked to believe that he would have pursued his dream of teaching others the wonders of Transfiguration or Defence against the Dark Arts. Gellert’s comment that his destiny is to become a king of his own, a leader, a figure of power on the chessboard of politics stirred something old and deep inside of him. No, he thought in hopeful contentment. His place on earth was on the back of Gwythyr, a rare Queen of the North who fit in her origin of birth as little as he had.   
  
The green hills and endless planes gave way to factories scattered in between small patches of forest like dragons. Their black smoke darkened the sky even further and obscured the sight for miles. Rain fell more heavily with each passing minute. The drops hit scales and spikes as if attempting to bring them down. Darkness fell over England; an early night swallowed the daylight. Luckily for those without night vision London was a far cry from an unobservable village. The fires that lit the streets flickered like candle flames, and the outskirts passed by unnoticed and gave way to the heart of the British Empire. Small messenger dragons flew to and from the city. The River Thames was a band of ink that divided the West End and the much poorer, dirtier East End. Albus recognized the pounding of his heart for what it was and shoved it aside forcefully. Either Gellert was dead and someone would tell him about it, or he lived and endured his king’s laments and would continue to do so without Albus’ worry.   
  
“And it still stands… Mister Scamander? Are you to report at the Ministry at once or would you perhaps care for dinner first? I for one would give a kingdom for something other than hard tack and Sauerkraut.” Scamander junior sagged a bit in his place on the base of Aurora’s neck, a wet poodle who knew that he was in for an unjust punishment. The rain almost drowned out his answer completely.   
“The report has priority, I’m afraid. I shall take you up on the offer once I know Aurora in safe hands.”   
Morgana, it was heart breaking. What a damned disaster, to see him mourn even before the fight for his future as Aurora’s Rider, companion, friend, partner in crime had properly begun. Albus balled his fists and gave a curt nod, nudging Gwythyr in the sides with his heels to signal her to descend gently.   
“Very well. But I will not let this whole sorry ordeal go over without objection. Every Rider in his right mind would have your back until the last decision is made.” Only the heavy rain followed his promise as the stench of London slowly caught up with him once more.   
  
Aurora howled the entire flight down to the Dragon’s Hall. She bucked, twisted and turned until Scamander Junior looked about ready to cry. His shield flickered out, consequentially drowning him from head to toe in the downpour. A man going to his own funeral could not have been more miserable. The high Lords in Parliament wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about the fate of a young magizoologist who, by chance, got picked to guide a Venetian dragon to London. As if a dragon couldn’t be trusted to cooperate without a human to be emotionally bound to. Their instinct of protection abused for the worst possible cause… Albus screwed his eyes shut against the sight of London rapidly growing, filled with people hurrying from street to street and carriages that rattled in between; a structured chaos the likes of which no place in the world could work with.   
  
Gwythyr growled so deep in her throat that he felt the vibration all the way into his skull.   
‘ _I will not let this happen. Albus, forgive me, I cannot. It is not just or reasonable in any way. Let us send them to Fort Highborne, let them explain. We make something up about Aurora needing medical care and take the time to come up with a plan. See how their Lordships try to get to Scotland in this weather.’_  
Scamander was talking to his frightened Aurora. His words too low to be overheard but there, meant to soothe. Heavens, Albus had enough of Lords shoving Riders and dragons across their own private battlefields.   
“There is no turning back now that half the city has already seen us descending upon them. But I feel the same, trust me. Head for the Ministry and I will do the rest.” Even while still speaking he started to unbuckle one by one for he needed to be the first to get down to catch any official welcoming committee off guard.   
  
To get what one wanted from the Parliament one had to leave a lingering impression and there was probably nothing more important to their Lordships than clothes. So Albus touched his scarlet coat at the shoulders with his wand to repair the patches of fabric worn thin. A trickling feeling like gooseflesh covered his arms as the spell did its work, next came the trousers and the silver buttons. Even his knitted stockings could do with some work that would have cost him hours done manually. The only thing that kept him in place now were the numerous gravity and safety net spells, layered atop cushioning spells in heaps. Last he took down the shield against the rain; a wet, angry Rider made more of an impression than a dry one. Just short of the shining Dragon’s Hall Aurora stopped, hovering, flapping. Her head hung so low that one would think her neck had been snapped, not Gwythyr’s.   
  
It was a picture perfect landing manoeuvre that properly scared the horses dragging carriages across drenched cobblestone and a few boats on the river shook under the onslaught of wind. Albus thought of the Piazza San Marco in Venice and wondered, not for the first time, why his own compatriots were such idiots when it came to necessary change. Magical wards flared up all around them with a lingering feeling of being trapped while spells of recognition washed over them warmly. Aurora touched the ground almost in perfect synch with Gwythyr and folded her wings under Scamander’s gentle praises. His knuckles were white as paper.   
  
The Dragon’s Hall consisted of a large dome of glass and stone next to the Thames and stables with livestock. The sun warmed the inside on bright days and the cold of snow and rain had no chance of coming in. It was warded up to the very roof and proofed against breakage, even when attacked by several dragons at once. It probably was one of the most secure buildings in the world. A long, hidden staircase outside led down to the actual Ministry itself, ten levels down into the earth filled to the brim with bureaucracy. Needless to say, no member of Parliament ever stepped foot in the dragon’s hall. To ride into it now felt close to coming home. The familiar stench of smoke, dung and sweat was a welcome alternative to the odours of London these days.  
  
Albus slid to the ground, taking off his gloves, while they were greeted by some curious sniffing and the deep rumble of dragons who recognized Gwythyr. Among them was Anarawd. There, in the very back of the hall, laid a large black mountain of breathing muscles, scales shifting with each movement, eyes closed. Albus froze. What in the seven hells…?  
“Good heavens,” he breathed and whirled around as Scamander Junior climbed down from Aurora. “Scamander! You stay here with the two of them, and don’t you let yourself get talked into leaving. I will figure this out.” He only got a distracted nod; Gwythyr snuck over to where Anarawd rested and started purring like an overgrown cat when he cracked an eye open. Sighing, Albus decided to let them have their time alone. If Gellert was here, somewhere in the depths of the British Ministry of Magic, coincidently on the day Albus himself had finally returned from his long journey… And alive for that as well, alive and on a visit to London!   
A breathless surge of joy made his heart pound with relief. His duty to report back to Lord Abraxas was suddenly unimportant. It could be done later – and that was where he caught himself.   
  
No, Albus decided and took a slow breath amidst the stable boys hurrying back and forth between dragons of all sizes. This was exactly what had happened last time, when he was a scant 18 years old. Gellert did that to people. Turned their priorities on their heads and placed himself on top. Now, as well as back then, those closest to Albus relied on him, like Newton Scamander hoping to high hell he would not have to part from Aurora at the whim of some uncaring Parliament member.   
  
He turned around abruptly and headed for the exit instead, a staircase that disappeared in the wet, black cobblestone directly next to the Hall of Dragons led to the Ministry. Down down down down it went until one believed to be lost in a nightmare of black marble that never ended anywhere. Upwards, the visitors and employees floated on carpets, which was a flight of fashion adapted from the Colonies over in India. They passed Albus without even recognizing him, most did not spare him a glance at all. Instead, they focused on the tiny light that he was walking away from, fists clenched. The air was cold and damp and statues that seemed not to be there a second ago slipped into his field of vision and bowed to him. They offered their perfect white hands like something sacred. On the left-hand side stood Prime Minister after Prime Minister in their alcoves, on the right the four Ministers of Magic since founding so far, followed by the Wizarding Council members, silent as graves, stone scratching on stone as they moved. Ghosts without pupils, he thought, ghosts trapped in marble, and he almost doubled over in his urgency to go deeper.   
  
On the first level was Minister Gore’s private office as well as the war council chambers. The entire second level was dedicated to Magical Law Enforcement. Finally, on level three, Albus stepped off that godawful staircase and headed straight ahead to Lord Abraxas’ office on the Department of the Dragonkorps. What he would have given to still have Scamander Senior as Head of Office, or alive at all… To know what his younger son would have to endure, should Albus fail, hurt even more in light of his memory. The stuck-up Malfoy idiot may be as pig-headed as a Horntail, this fight he intended to win.   
  
The halls were full of busy Riders in their crimson uniforms. Each which nodded at Albus held tight smiles or grim expressions of worry, sometimes accompanied by a member of the War Council or higher ranks in the Military. Deep lines and hollow exhaustion spoke of the time they lived in, while the light in the hall painted everything in a dull ashen grey. The door to Lord Abraxas’ stood ajar, so Albus knocked and took a peek inside to only be startled as a flight of paper birds shot past him into all possible directions. Lord Abraxas Malfoy, writing a letter, only looked up after a long, awkward while, obviously not in a hurry as everyone else was. His expression revealed nothing about his thoughts or feelings, not even surprise registered in those white caterpillar-like eyebrows.   
  
“Ah, Rider Dumbledore. Come in, close the door behind you, please.” Albus did. “We expected you back some days ago. What had you delayed?”  
“The French and some unfortunate weather that slowed us down. You will find two captured French ships of the line in Dover. Two others were destroyed as we drove them ashore near Lagos in Portugal and two remaining fled onto the open ocean certainly without the provisions for the long way cross-Atlantic. _HMS Achilles_ , _Brilliant_ and _Juno_ are safely back in Dover. We arrived about one and a half hour ago if my sense of time isn’t completely butchered by now.” That got him a mere pleased rise of brows, the quill on paper did not stop scratching even for a second.   
  
“Your Queen of the North?”  
“Well on her way to full recovery. Gwythyr played her part in scaring the French ashore much faster than it would have happened without her help.” Albus tried to keep his tone neutral, he really did, but an ire he had only known towards Muggle haters and his own younger brother climbed the back of his throat like bile. The uncaring nature of the Lord’s reaction was even worse than disdain would have been.   
“Four ships we do not have to worry about in the case of an invasion. Good news indeed. The Council needs to know about this. Has the Venetian Green arrived alongside you safely?” He grated his teeth. What invasion? The French were being crushed Overseas and in India. The Channel was as heavily guarded as possible without delaying trade even further. The duchy of Hanover was free of French troops once more, thanks to the momentous efforts of Gwythyr’s formation. Who had cooked up this horse dung about an invasion again?  
  
“Indeed she has. Permission to speak to the War Council, mylord? There are some serious misunderstandings that I would prefer only to speak about once.”   
And that finally got him the attention he sought. Lord Abraxas studied him for a long, unmoving moment while the quill in his right hand dripped ink that disappeared in thin air. His wig was almost as white as his haughty face.   
“As I informed you in Venice, you are due for some decoration or other. It is not my task to do anyway, so you might as well collect them yourself. However, I warn you not to speak out of line. You have made your opinions clear in the past despite having been heavily advised against it. One major victory in an act of bravery does not grant you immunity.”   
  
Words, words, so many of them. They burned Albus’ tongue until he wanted to spit them out, hot and uncontrolled. Soldiers were expected not to have opinions, oh, he got that loud and clear. They were just like dragons, who weren’t supposed to contain a soul with feelings inside their golden spiteful hearts.   
“Warning duly noted, Sir. May I go?” They assessed each other over the desk, and Albus felt looked down upon from the man sitting in front of him.   
“You may. I want a full report of your entire journey on my desk in four weeks’ time.” A fitting gesture accompanied the merciful dismissal, fitting for a king in his palace at least, which Albus took as an excuse to turn on his heel without even saluting or so much as a curt nod. Heavens above, he had to find the snooty bastards responsible for Scamander Junior’s misery, catch Gellert before they missed each other and _leave_ this hole.   
  
The war council wasn’t hard to find as it was a large room lined with wand paintings, carpets and fine furniture. It served as one of two centres for British war politics, the other, of course, being Westminster Palace where the Parliament and the inner council came together regularly. To Albus’ surprise he did not find only wizards arguing over a map of the world. Minister Gore was the only politician with magic in the room. The two others, he recognized from paintings and speeches, were Lord Holland and the Earl of Chatham from the inner council. They perched around the table in expensive black robes, wigs powdered to perfection, faces chalked and lips bloodied with colour. They looked like fat birds with ruffled feathers. Albus almost pulled up short when his focus landed on the fourth man in the room as he saw right through a notice-me-not-charm. He was gorgeous in his grey uniform, proudly upright, pale as a winter morning with his hair pulled back strictly. Their eyes met and the world stopped. A beat of silence made him swallow, suddenly troubled with breathing alone, Albus unclenched his fists.  
  
“Minister Gore, Lord Holland, the Earl of Chatham,” he greeted with a suitable bow, one hand behind his back, the other clasped in front of his beating heart. In no possible way could he let on that he knew the Prussian Rider staring at him, he could not, but oh, he wanted to. He _wanted_. “Rider Dumbledore on Gwythyr and magizoologist Scamander on Aurora report back from a successful journey from Venice. We dragged in two French three masters from Lagos in Portugal all the way to Dover. Admiral Boscawen and Admiral Barrington asked for a repair and re-shaping after our fashion.”  
  
The Earl of Chatham, a well-fed man with a moustache, who wore many rings on his fingers, clasped his hands together and nodded in obvious satisfaction, making his wig quiver.   
“Indeed! Why, you bring wonderful news, Rider Dumbledore, and we are ever so glad to have you back. An addition to our fleet cannot hurt, and we will get it on the way immediately. Is there something to be done for you before you leave us for Scotland again?” Albus squared his jaw and pushed back his shoulders.   
“Actually, yes, there is. Before we make haste for the north, I must have you know in my position as an experienced Rider of long years that I strongly advise against separating Mister Scamander Junior from Aurora. She has become quite attached to him, strongly protective, as one tends to do after the first battle fought together.” It was like a christening, that, the first battle of dragon and Rider, which neither of their Lordships could deny easily. They might all be politicians without any experience with dragons whatsoever, which made the matter all the worse, really, but a blind man would have felt the steam beginning to quell out of Gellert’s ears in outrage. Oh. He hadn’t known, then.   
  
Both Lords raised their eyebrows at the current Minister of Magic, Lord Gore, whom Albus had in all honestly not expected to stumble upon so casually.   
“The transfer was a gift from Venice, Rider Dumbledore, and as well-meant as your insight on the topic might be, it is a sealed deal and has been so for three weeks already.” A long, controlled breath did absolutely nothing to qualm his rising temper.   
“In that case, you should have let Aurora come with us on her own. She obviously had no regrets whatsoever leaving Venice, which is a noisy crowded place for a man but near unbearable for a dragon. A beautiful city, without a doubt, and a very rich one to that. But if diplomatic niceties now waste the happiness and good conscious of a skilled magizoologist, a talented field surgeon without the means to put his science to good use, you are spitting on his ability to help _and_ on Britain’s needs. If the Venetians believe such a man’s heart and a young Medium Weight of their own breed, that they have dozens of, a fair deal for the life of the only Queen of the North England has to offer, they are sorely mistaken.”  
Shocked silence followed his outburst, during which Albus felt Gellert’s heavy gaze like a touch to both shoulders that made him close his eyes almost on instinct. Everything he had kept bottled up inside, the fear for Gwythyr, the suffering they shared as she endured the pain, the longing and the foul moods spilled out of him like scalding water.   
  
Gellert exhaled as controlled as one so enraged possibly could.   
“I was told that she has survived the fall over Venice. Was that a misinformation?” How cool he made it sound, how expressionless he appeared… It made Albus want to throw up and cry.   
“No,” he replied breathing, breathing until it stopped to hurt so badly. “But barely. So Morgana help me, it was a damned close call. Her wounds got infected four days after the battle, which we nursed for two weeks. We then ran into an ongoing battle a few miles off the port of Lagos, barely a day after leaving Gibraltar. Had it not been for the medical skills of Newton Scamander and Aurora’s continued help to feed her she would have been lost long before Admiral Barrington so mercifully took us in.”  
Minister Gore sat back into a chair that he summoned out of nowhere, a dramatic trick that Albus would have pulled himself had he not been so tightly wound-up. They all looked a lot more uncomfortable than any god-fearing ordinary soldier would have gotten away with. But then, Albus was considered a war hero now, just as Theseus Scamander, waiting for his little brother to come home.   
  
“Am I getting this right,” Gellert put up in sniping, accented English before the Minister could utter a word out of his opened mouth, “Your Lordships and Highnesses struck a deal that directly involved binding a dragon to a man with plans of giving the emotionally and spiritually compromised dragon away like a fine horse? What were you expecting, for the poor thing to cooperate in a land strange to her when the only human she trusts has been ordered from her side?”  
“What are you German puritan expecting, for us to bend at your whim?” Lord Holland struck back coolly without lifting a brow and focused on Albus instead. “Isn’t the medical care for dragons part of the curriculum in the Academy, Rider Dumbledore?”  
He only just refrained from snorting. These men had no idea about his life, his job, and the risks involved. None at all.   
  
“And how am I supposed to pull bullets from my dearest’s flesh, several inches buried in her boiling blood, when I am lying injured in the healing bay myself? I may be an outstanding wizard, but even I am not of much use when unconscious in the care of physicians and nurses.”  
“Venetian ones at that,” Gellert muttered angrily before he lifted his chin and looked the Minister dead in the eye. “You lack a field surgeon able to get from one point to the other within seconds, which Apparation grants us capable ones, as well as one well versed in the art of tending to dragons. Prussia has a whole fleet of Light Weights with Riders whose only purpose is to heal and to soothe. Omitting them from the gruelling training we soldiers undergo opens up opportunities to improve in their art while we improve in ours. To put it lightly, this is basic common sense and I am mildly surprised to see it so crushed in the heart of England.”  
  
Oh, Albus wanted to kiss him stupid and peel him out of that tight-fitted uniform. No legilimancy was needed for them to communicate in perfect synch, even without having talked in weeks. Albus made a show of squinting at the name stitched into his uniform.   
“Thank you, Rider Grindelwald. I trust you had a safe flight to London?” A flicker in those mismatched eyes made them shine with mirth, the tiniest smirk catching at the edge of his thin lips was well hidden, followed by a curt nod.   
“Of course. My King sends his congratulations for your victory over Venice. The Empress of Austria has yet to recover from your heavy blow.” Physically and mentally, no doubt. There were at least four different meaning hidden in between his smooth words witnessed by the highest members of Parliament. Albus allowed himself a smile as he gathered his hands behind his back to refrain from something stupid, such as reach out and hold on until the world ended around them.   
“We had help from His Majesty’s finest, of course,” he allowed, inclining his head just so. “May I bring Mister Scamander the necessary change of heart, then? We need him. Urgently.”   
  
And that was how Albus and Gellert turned around a contract signed and set in stone by the English King George II. himself.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Holland here is real-life Henry Fox, 1st Baron Holland (28 September 1705 – 1 July 1774), Secretary of War during the Seven Year's War. The Earl of Chatham is real-life Prime Minister William Pitt the Elder, 1st Earl of Chatham, PC, FRS (15 November 1708 – 11 May 1778). He later got ditched (or rather bullied out of office) by the new British King George III. in 1761.  
> Hesphaestus Gore, previously an Auror, was Minister for Magic from 1752 to 1770, according to the Harry Potter Wiki. He renovated and reinforced Azkaban Prison, apparently.   
> All in all, Albus ran into the most important men of Great Britain here having a political chat with Gellert as a representative for the Kingdom of Prussia.


	4. One Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming home isn't easy, but alas, there is a silver lining to every cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey internet, I'm terribly sorry about the delay. My PC decided to give out on me after the last Windows update and I only managed to get it fixed, more or less, yesterday. So here you go, this is the last chapter of To the ends of earth. The next part, Midwinter Nights, is already in the capable hands of my lovely beta whom I again thank heartily for fighting her way through this piping hot mess of run-on sentences and copious historical rambling. I'm still injured, so work on part 5, Black Powder Dawn, is slow, but I'll get there in the end.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented and gave Kudos on this trip to a fictional past, it was tremendous fun to write and I love this series like almost no fanfiction I've ever done before. The research alone is worth it. :D  
> Everybody stay safe and take care in these trying times. We'll be okay, and so will our boys.

**Part 4: One day**  
  
Through a full ten minutes of conversation with the Minister of Magic, Albus knew again why he preferred the Fort up in Scotland much more than residing in London. Fort Highborne was full of rough men without manners. Not half of them born with magic and the entirety of the lot would have been put to shame by Gellert alone, but it was familiar. He had friends and Gwythyr had her adopted family of misfits there and the howling wind was easier on the nose than everything that London emitted in summer. It would be a relief to be back in a safe, friendly environment, even if Albus never thought of it as home.  
This longing, this urge to get away from the capital and her crude politicians doubled a hundredfold when Gellert snatched a flying carpet from the waiting line and sat himself exactly in the middle. Albus wanted to pull him down and lean against him, burry his own nose in the sweep where neck met shoulder, inhale, hold his breath to never let go.  
“You must come with us to Scotland. I thought you dead, you lucky bastard – Will you come with me?”  
A small sigh and their hands fell apart as Albus climbed a carpet of his own, half of the tension in his back already gone.  
“Ascendere!” he ordered and up the wide staircase they went.  
  
Amongst the busy people that entered and left the Ministry on a mission all of their own, Albus never lost sight of that warm feeling in his heart which told him that he was not alone. Not today, not here. It was their blood pact making itself known, no doubt, and for once he was grateful for it. The white dot at the end of the endless stairs opened up to London, drowning in a cold downpour. Suddenly, there was the noise of dragons huffing, grumbling, calling, snoring. They hurried into the Dragons’ Hall as the carpets swiftly turned around to escape back into the darkness of the Ministry, a soft swish, easily overheard amongst the rain hitting the ceiling of glass.  
  
Damp warm air welcomed them back into what they knew like their own hands, and this time Albus actually took the time to look around. He could scarcely believe how many dragons of all colours and sizes were cramped in here. There were more messenger Light Weights than Heavy Weights like Gwythyr and Anarawd, who immediately perked up at the entrance of their Riders.  
“Young dogs,” Gellert snorted quietly, but with affection. He brushed Albus’ fingers as if he meant to take his left hand right there in front of the stable boys and Riders hurrying back and forth across the dome. Albus lowered his head to hide his smile as he let go of the tension he had been harbouring like shields. Of course he noticed the sparks flying between their fingertips at the softest of touches, the lightest of caresses.  
  
And there on the ground Newton Scamander kneeled between Anarawd’s claws with his lit wand clutched between his teeth. Albus did not have to hear him to guess at what he was muttering under his breath. He decidedly did not have to take a look at Gellert’s face to imagine his expression of utter disbelief.  
“Don’t. Just… don’t. That’s him. Newton Scamander, younger son of the late William Scamander whom I eternally have to thank for Gwythyr. He was the one who insist on keeping her when the Swedes wanted to send her away to a breeding camp.” Gellert clicked his tongue, pretending that he had not pulled up short and stared like an idiot at his own dragon.  
“I see. Your government is full of incompetent apes, even more so than I already feared.”  
“Entirely agreed,” Albus murmured.  
  
They made their way over to the three dragons huddled impossibly close together over whatever Scamander was doing to Anarawd’s pitch black claws on his left foreleg. It looked like a scene in a theatre, and yet, Albus thought that one had to be blind or deaf not to notice the protectiveness of Aurora and Gwythyr over the young man. The stable boys didn’t pay them any mind, which probably meant that they had been sent away once or twice already.  
  
“Mister Scamander?” Gellert called cautiously, somewhere between amusement and worry, the immediate jealousy clear as day.  
“Busy, leave me alone!” They shared a look that spoke volumes. He avoided what feared most by making himself helpful. Heavens, but Albus had grown fond of the boy, and he would see Gellert do the same within days, for sure. Carefully he approached the huddled lot to be greeted by a warm puff of air. A hand to Gwythyr’s lowered snout calmed his nerves that shot out of nowhere whenever the love of his youth was near.  
‘ _Surgery,_ ’ Gwythyr informed him. _  
  
_Albus knew better than to place a hand on Mister Scamander’s shoulder to get his attention. On the ground laid a professional kit of medical tools, all polished to perfection, and a bowl of water next to it. Anarawd sat still as a statue, but his breathing was laboured, a deep, rumbling sound that told truths about just how large he was. Mister Scamander, however, was not the slightest bit annoyed by the regular floods of hot air ruffling his ginger hair. They probably were the centre focus of the entire Dragon’s Hall by now. Albus really just wanted to get away from here.  
“As much as I appreciate your continued devotion to our loyal companions, I have some pleasant news to tell you. We just talked to the-“  
“Can we do this after I pulled a lead bullet in between two broken finger bones twice as long as my entire arm?” For a moment, Albus contemplated taking Gellert for a cup of tea in one of London’s many coffee houses and salons, just to leave the dragons to fuss over Scamander Junior like a fledgling freshly out of its egg. He would be fine, for sure. Had there not been the issue that the change of plan surely had not made rounds yet, he would have. Right then and there. It was worth a shot to get the boy to listen, at least.  
  
“As I think about it now – Gellert, have I told you of that small place behind the Cathedral of Westminster that serves the best Indian tea I have ever tasted in my life? Did I not promise to you some weeks ago to take you out for a stroll in the rose gardens of Hyde Park?” Gellert’s eyes sparked as he stepped to his side and touched his elbow like he meant to embrace him. Oh, he knew exactly what Albus was onto.  
“You did. We do have plenty of time for that now, don’t we? Discussions with your Minister Gore will most likely continue tomorrow, so I am free for today. And seeing as my most trusted friend here is occupied with getting a manicure…” But then, his gaze turned piercing and upwards. “You should have told me you were in pain, you great buffoon. I asked you about it, repeatedly, if my memory doesn’t fail me now, before we took flight from Chatêau Sanssouci. Did I not?” Anarawd lowered his head. It was all the answer needed, even without words, and that finally got Scamander Junior’s attention.  
  
Something was placed on the ground and water splashed as he washed and dried his hands. As usual, he didn’t meet the eyes of the person he was talking to directly, rather glancing through his bangs of curly hair than appearing as a threat. He acted in mostly animal’s body language, Albus realized, and in such, direct eye contact was considered aggression, a rigid spine with all his height as predatory. Merlin, but it made sense.  
“Yes, well, if you, Sir, had noticed your entrusted dragon still had a bullet about the size of a walnut stuck underneath his claws, where the scales begin and horn ends, it would not have taken me to remove it. He would have ended up with lead poisoning in his left foreleg. And, trust me, that is not something you want him to go through.”  
  
For the first time in this strange conversation, although Scamander was still on his knees, Gellert observed him silently. It wasn’t a judgemental assessment, instead he took in all the details, drew his conclusion and finalised them in a curt nod.  
“A tricky place to check, though I promise to be more thorough in the future. They are such bullheads sometimes, never admit to pain, never give up. Are you done or do you need my assistance?” And there it was. Eye contact. Scamander’s eyes widened as he jumped back to Albus. Clearly he panicked for a moment before he got a hold of himself and shook his head no.  
“I – I am done. Rider Grindelwald, am I right? I heard about you, of course – And I agree with you completely. But they are also kind-hearted in their effort to always bear everything, to take the weight off our shoulders and make our lives easier. They are loyal to a fault and terrible gossips, worse than fishwives.” His smile made him younger than he was. A hint of surprise settled into the corner of his pale lips as Gellert extended a hand and pulled him to his feet.  
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Rider Scamander. Next time that Anarawd has done something stupid again – call for me, would you?”  
  
All three dragons drew back a good portion, visibly satisfied. Gwythyr started grooming her claws while Anarawd settled back down again as before. Aurora, on the other hand, looked ready to bolt or snatch her favourite human away on a second’s notice. Deciding that this was the moment to step in, Albus touched Gellert on the small of his back to let him know that he wasn’t going anywhere, only to soothe a scared dragon so much smaller than Gwythyr and Anarawd. They had taken her into their middle, a gesture so painstakingly protective that his heart ached from the fate that politicians had laid out without knowing or having spoken to her.  
  
“Aurora?” he addressed her calmly and bowed in Gellert’s stead; an introduction to a new person would have scared her enough to become hostile. He had her full focus immediately, and they were watched, of course, from all sides. His gaze lowered to the ground, and he offered his right hand, palm up with his wand visibly tucked away in a holster at the side of his right leg. There was a low whine from Gwythyr that he ignored for the moment, and when he understood that Aurora wasn’t speaking to him just yet, he dared to look up again. She was crouching low on the stone ground, eyes almost level with him, or so it felt, still she was a lot taller than two horses on top of each other.  
  
“I am not a threat and neither is my friend, Gellert Grindelwald, Rider of Anarawd. We talked to the Council, to put it lightly, and they could not refuse our reasoning. Your Newton is a very skilled magizoologist who just proved again that he has extensive medical knowledge that we urgently need in this war. Only a fool would deny that you are the best protection he could ask for, on and off the battlefield. We need field surgeons and people who heal instead of kill. The two of you saved Gwythyr from a slow, painful death and me a lifetime of misery. We owe you. As matters stand, I want to repay that debt by gifting you this. Your Rider will not be taken away, neither will you. If it takes the three of you and the three of us to convince some politicians of that promise, we will be here. We will.”  
  
Scamander was trembling out of the corner of his eye. A small gesture to urge him over was enough to have him at Aurora’s side in an instant.  
“Are you serious? Did you talk to the Minister himself, who signed anything, is this for sure?” And his voice was wavering, cracking and breaking up on every other word as much as he tried to put up a strong front. Albus heard the tears hidden in between, just as he felt Gellert’s heart swelling inside his own. He nodded.  
“We did, he did and as soon as the inner council members saunter off to Westminster again, it should be a secure thing done and over with. Their deal with Venice was unjust in the first place; the Venetians gave up practically nothing by sending one of their own extensive breeds in comparison to what we voluntarily did in their service against the German and the Austrians over the lagoon.” At Aurora’s deep grumble, he backtracked, retreating a few steps, as much cautiousness as it was out of respect. “I did not mean it in that way, mylady, I apologize. It is just – politics. Tedious, really. And terribly complicated.”  
  
Whatever Mister Scamander wanted to say to that, probably apologize in return for being such a bother or some other horse dung, she beat him to it.  
‘ _Thank you,_ ’ she sighed in his head, curled in and practically collapsed where she stood. Tension was bleeding out of her in tendrils, just as her Rider sagged heavily against her breathing bulk in relief.  
“I think you can introduce yourself now, but I’d still make it short,” he said to Gellert, Scamander Junior was so obviously exhausted from weeks of worry and manual labour that Albus had an urge to put him to bed. Merlin’s beard, the man was twenty, not twelve, and he himself not that many years over thirty to think of him as so young and innocent. Everybody had secrets. The way Scamander held himself, how he treated patients both human and creature alike spoke volumes about the life he must have led so far. The shadows he had seen, wars and poverty he had survived. Maybe Albus would talk about those thoughts later with Gwythyr, if he would have a moment alone with her today at all. Considering the look Gellert shot him after the polite introduction was done, it wasn’t very likely. Aurora sniffed the Prussian Rider up and down, let out a deep rumble and went promptly back to sleep.  
  
“May I steal Master Dumbledore from you for a few hours? All of you deserve some rest and we have not seen one another for a month.” No, Albus did in fact not get any say in this he realized. Gwythyr huffed in amusement and Aurora tucked closely into her left side, already half asleep.  
‘ _Go,_ ’ the latter ordered, ‘ _Nobody will take Newt away._ ’  
“Certainly not,” Gellert drawled before he slid a hand into Albus’ armpit and held on, leading him out of the Dragon’s Hall as surely as if they were walking down rows of seats in an opera house. What a nice image that was, the two of them, all sophisticated in their best Sunday attire… And even as Albus could feel himself blush all the way to his ears the idea became more appealing by the second. He wanted. Morgana, he wanted.  
  
It was still raining outside, a soft downpour, not too windy; the worst of it must have passed while Albus was inside the Ministry. The sky was lighter than before, the colour of smoke instead of the angry black it had been on their way from Dover. It seemed summer had finally retreated. Breathing in the cool refreshing air, Albus smiled.  
“Would you still be willing to visit Hyde Park’s rose garden with me in this weather? It is a rather secluded area with oak trees older even than Anarawd watching over it and it won’t be crowded with the rain.”  
Slowly they made their way along the river. They were protected by a summoned see-through umbrella, which sprouted from Gellert’s wand. There was a shine to his eyes, a glimmer of something so much deeper than superficial camaraderie.  
“I would love to. I can see you are already drawing up plans for the next days before I accompany you to cold, stormy Scotland; let me promise you that I am in for all of them. You never once disappointed me when it came to your extensive courting.”  
  
If possible, Albus’ smile deepened. Not a single human soul in the world knew him better than Gellert Grindelwald, which was dangerous, alluring, a risk almost too high to take. The world was at war and alliances turned into hate and death just as fast as kingdoms came to an understanding again for only a few years. Yet, this was Gellert, his closest friend of young adulthood, his partner and only equal. The man he had been willing to lead a revolution with. Albus would have been a great hypocrite to turn away now.  
“Ah, I am glass to you, am I not? I won’t deny it. What would you say if I pulled some strings to buy two tickets for the Royal Theatre for tomorrow night? Or a theatre or opera elsewhere, if you would rather something small and private.” His cheeks were heating while his mind raced at too high a speed for his mouth to keep up. He covered Gellert’s cold fingers with his own, warm as usual, to soften his obvious eagerness. The harbour was devoid of people; not many were fond of strolls in the rain of London while night was falling.  
  
Gellert threw only a hasty notice-me-not spell to wrap them up like one large blanket. A kiss to Albus’ cheek made him shiver, but it was the words that followed which turned his knees weak.  
“I would rather have a whole loge for the two of us. To hide in plain sight in the Royal Theatre, with some good Shakespeare tragedy on stage, so that I can devour you whole and have you panting before the second act. And no one will be the wiser for it.”  
“Heavens, Gellert,” he murmured and almost, _almost_ pressed him against the façade of a dirty storage house. Had someone handed him a mirror, his pupils would have been blown wide. His heart rate accelerated, breath shallow, legs slow and heavy. Gellert backed off to continue to stroll down the river side with the tiniest hint of a smirk, wolf-like.  
“I take that as an enthusiastic yes.”  
How exactly had he managed to turn around the question?  
  
Rose gardens. They had wanted to go to Hyde Park, probably by apparition as coaches were simply abominable, and let the heavenly smell of roses go to their heads like wine.  
“Where are you staying until the Ministry gives up on negotiations?”  
“Albus, my Albus, as curious as ever! Wouldn’t you like to know? Now, I will show you, after you have seduced me properly with His Majesty’s roses, born and bred royalty like you and I should have been. Take me there, please.”  
Albus exhaled, long and controlled, to straighten out his head and dislodge a certain interest further down between his legs for now. Yes, he thought, for now. They had a few days yet together to enjoy in their own way, for him to parade Gellert and Anarawd around Fort Highborne while hopefully not being laughed at too much by Gwythyr. And once it was time to say farewell again, they would both be calmer and happier than they had been in a long while.  
“Gladly,” he replied as he envisioned the rose gardens in every detail, Gellert smiling up to him with a heavy promise hidden behind his mesmerizing eyes. A loud pop, the hard pressure of two points far from each other connecting, and they were gone.


End file.
